Gravitational Pull
by SapphireOcean
Summary: Four moments that could have happened between River and Isabelle. [Complete.]


This fic was written for the digital To The Moon Fanzine "Wish Granted" which came out November 5th! It was my first attempt at writing River and Isabelle, and I hope I did them both justice. I can't recommend To The Moon highly enough, please go play it and everything else by Freebird Games.

* * *

_one_

It's recess, which means it's time to go to your favorite spot: a tree on the edge of the playground. Sometimes you like to climb it, just to the lowest branch, and observe everyone. But usually you sit underneath it and think, or watch the leaves make waves in the breeze and patterns in the sunlight. That tree is Your Spot, has been since Grade 1, and despite being right out in the open it's still Your Spot, two years later.

You always wonder how something so obvious goes unnoticed by so many people.

"Hey, River. River, hey."

It's those two girls again. The one with pigtails used to be all right but the black-haired girl is mean, and Pigtails just follows her lead now. They had names, and you knew them once, back before the bullying started.

You wish you'd never told them yours. _Everyone_ finds it funny.

"Hello," you say, only because they aren't leaving. There's nowhere to go until they do; no way are you letting them find Your Spot.

"Where'd you get that brown thing?" says Black Hair.

"Yeah, where?" says Pigtails.

You look at Plat-Plat in your arms. She's been with you every day; you're lucky the girls haven't noticed her until now. "A carnival." It's not their business. It's just that sometimes they're meaner if you don't respond, and your gut's telling you today you shouldn't stay quiet.

"Wait, _you_ won something?" Black Hair laughs in a sneering way, too long and too loud. "No wonder it's so ugly."

An itch starts at your tailbone; you hold Plat-Plat more tightly to stave it off.

"Must've been a consolation prize," Pigtails says, giggling.

"She's a pla— a plah-tee-push," you say, not shouting, but still your kind of loud. You've only read the word, looking it up as soon as you had gotten home That Day, but you know you just said it wrong. You shut your eyes and try to piece it together over the girls' laughter.

"A weirdo for a weirdo!"

"_Platypus._ It's a mammal with a duck bill, and flippers, and it lives in Australia, and it lays eggs, and it can sting you."

"It has stingers?"

"Ew!"

The itch is getting worse. You're starting to feel hot all over. You're going to hit them, you're going to scream, but you _can't_ because both those things are _bad_—

"Hey! Leave her alone!"

Time stops. The girl with brown hair blazes through it and you can't look anywhere else.

"Or what?" Black Hair's voice squeaks.

"I mean it. I'll tell Miss Birch if you don't get out of here now."

"You wouldn't."

Brown Hair takes a deep breath. "_Miss_—_!_"

"Okay, fine!" In your peripheral vision, you see Black Hair grab Pigtails's hand and run.

You're having a bit of trouble breathing, but the itch has gone and the heat has begun to fade. Realizing you're holding Plat-Plat in a death grip helps you relax more.

"Are you okay?"

Her voice is soft now. You nod, staring at Plat-Plat.

"...Are you sure?"

"Yes." You don't really want to look up; if you look up maybe Brown Hair will see what you're really like and turn on you. But you do want to see her eyes, to see if they match her voice. With effort you raise your head.

Her eyes are hard, but not unkind. The strong kind of hard, ready to fight, against those girls or anyone. They are dark, probably also brown.

The itch comes back, a bit stronger. You squeeze Plat-Plat to your chest and say, "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The more you stare, the farther the itch creeps up your spine, until it reaches sharp between your shoulder blades- you flinch and have to look away.

"I'm Isabelle. What's your name?"

_Isabelle._ You like that name, halfway between plain and unusual. But you've just met her. Maybe Isabelle's only pretending to be nice because she's older.

"Everyone makes fun of it," you say, looking from your peripheral vision; no itch that way.

Isabelle's brows are pinched. A moment later they smooth as she smiles, briefly. "Have you eaten lunch yet?"

You blink. "No."

"How about this?" Isabelle holds up a finger. "I'll guess your name. Three tries, and if I get it wrong, then… I'll have to treat you to whatever dessert you'd like at lunch!"

You blink again, then a few more times. Why does she want to make a game out of— "You aren't in my grade."

"I don't care about that," Isabelle says with a laugh (a much nicer laugh than Black Hair's). "I like you, and I want to have lunch with my new friend."

"Friend…?" Warmth tingles in your hands.

"But maybe you'd rather eat alone. That's okay, too. Or, or maybe there's another friend you'd rather eat with, or—"

"No. It's okay. You can guess."

"Or we could just go eat, I shouldn't have—"

"_Isabelle._" The strength in your voice forces you to look at her straight on. She's looking back, eyes wide. They are brown, but they have a little green too.

"It's okay," you say again, slowly. "You can guess."

Isabelle blinks. "Oh. Um, okay." She puts a hand to her chin and cocks her head. "Jasmine."

"No. That's one."

"Hannah?"

A smile surprises you. "Two."

"Shoot," Isabelle exclaims, stamping a foot. "Last chance…" She closes her eyes, nose scrunching.

You watch her while she thinks. She's about the same height as you, even though she's older. Her fingers are long. Close up, her hair looks darker than you thought.

Does she ever get an itch that makes her _need_ to do things, too?

A light appears in her eyes right before she says, "I've got it! Autumn! Because of your hair."

Relief softens your shoulders. "Three."

"Aw." She puffs out her cheeks for a moment before shrugging and saying, "Well, I'm hungry. Let's go eat."

"Okay." Adjusting your grip on Plat-Plat, you step closer.

"You can tell me your name whenever you feel comfortable," she says, as you begin walking. "Or don't. I don't mind."

You consider this. "Okay."

You consider it all the way to the cafeteria, pausing to select your dessert (a brownie). You keep considering as you follow Isabelle in her search for an empty table. You consider while adjusting Plat-Plat next to you on the bench. When you happen to look at her after that, she's watching you.

"What?"

"Oh, sorry." Her face goes a little pink. "I just… Platypuses are so interesting, don't you think?"

_She likes them too!_ "Yes. Her name is Plat-Plat."

You eat in silence. You make a decision in the middle of unwrapping your brownie.

"My name," you say, setting the neatly-balled plastic wrap aside, "is River."

The expression on her face is like the sun rising. "What a pretty name."

_two_

What was Johnny afraid of when you followed the hacky-sack? You weren't going to jump. (You did, for a tenth of a second, wonder what would happen if you let yourself- this new, other self Johnny thinks you are- fall.)

His confession makes your words tangle up even more than usual. Your mind is going haywire with whys and hows and possible solutions.

With all your willpower, you wait until the weekend before you call Isabelle.

"Can I come see you?"

The forced calm in your walk to her house dissolves into a run part way through. She looks shocked when she lets you in; you're breathless, overheated, tears on your face from running against wind gusts.  
"Come sit down. What happened?"

"No." You pace in military circles, rubbing your arms fitfully. You left home so fast you forgot Plat-Plat. "He doesn't remember." Those are the only words you can get out. Not _he doesn't remember me,_ not _he forgot where to meet me,_ not _I don't know how to tell him._ "Johnny."

"Take a deep breath. What doesn't he remember?"

You do, still pacing. It doesn't help. "You told him to tell me the truth but it's wrong. He's _wrong,_ and I don't know how to fix it." Another breath. Another.

In the silence, Isabelle says, "It must have hurt you a lot."

"It.. shocked me. I don't understand how…" You keep pacing, keep breathing. It's not helping yet.

"Do you think that Johnny still loves you?"

The question makes you freeze. A worn spot in the carpet holds your attention. "I… I don't know."

"Well…" Her voice is quiet, but closer. "Do you still love him?"

"Yes." That's so true you can feel it in your bones.

"For whatever it's worth, I can see how much he loves you. Even though he's forgotten something important." She sighs. "I wish I could help."

When the carpet fibers begin to blur, a question comes to you. "What do you think stars are made out of?"

Her reply is close enough to Johnny's that it almost starts to make your spine itch.

You take the longest breath yet. Then you sit in the nearest chair and gesture Isabelle over. "I've only told Johnny this." _In another life. Before I was a stranger._ "I… I think they're lighthouses."

_three_

You dial the phone with shaky hands, even though you feel calm. Part of you wonders if you're asking the right person; the rest of you feels too lost to care.

It's been a better day for you physically, a week out from your latest treatment, but not mentally. You're still upset from talking to Johnny yesterday. This is the only chance for Anya to have company, the last chance for you to be unconditionally happy, but he's still obsessed with making you get well. You know he's afraid, that he loves you and doesn't want to live without you so soon. If the situation were reversed, though, you'd at least _try_ to listen to him. If he really loves you, why is he too scared to even try?

She answers on the fifth ring. "Hello, River."

You speak before she can ask how your day has been; you'd have to tell her everything about Anya (you can feel the words weighing down your lungs) and this question is much more important. "Do you believe in heaven?"

There's a pause, about twenty seconds. "Maybe the more pertinent question is, do _you_ believe in it."

You shake your head, then remember you're on the phone. "No. I want to know if you do, Isabelle. Please answer what I asked."

She exhales, slowly. "I'm not sure I believe in heaven as a place, the way so many religions do. I'd like to think a small part of us exists after we die, somewhere. But I don't think there's any way to be sure." She chuckles. "Maybe I'm selfish to want something to hold onto after loved ones pass away, to hope that I'll leave something behind for the people who love me besides memories. But… I think hope and belief have a lot in common.

"That's probably not what you were hoping to hear," she says softly, after you've had time to absorb what she said.

"I don't know."

"Do you want to tell me what you think about heaven?"

You close your eyes. Breathe in and out slowly. The words are lining up, waiting to be spoken. "I read once that maybe people become stars after they die. I like how that sounds. That would mean… I'd be a lighthouse. I'd be among the other lighthouses. And… maybe they'd understand, even though we wouldn't be able to hear each other."

The thought tastes bittersweet.

"But if I become a lighthouse, I still won't be able to talk to them. I w-won't, won't be able to talk to _him_...!"

Tears roll down your face. Your throat is burning. You want to scream, to sob until you have no voice left, but all that comes out of you are broken gasps and hiccups. Why do you have no voice now, when it feels like you're being torn apart?

If you do start screaming, you might not stop.

Isabelle's voice is shaky at first, but as she goes on that fades away, gaining that same kind hardness you saw in her eyes all those years ago. "If you become a lighthouse... your light is so strong and so unmistakable Johnny will know without a doubt that it's you. So will Anya. Because he'll build that house for you, River. Because he loves you."

"But what if he doesn't know?" you half-wail. "He, he didn't…"

"Then I'll tell him. Hell, _Nick_ will tell him." She sounds almost angry. "I know you're scared of being forgotten. All of us are. And I know it's different for… you and me." Her breathing filters watery through the phone. "Can you do one thing for me?"

"What is it?" you whisper.

"Please, please believe what I'm about to say: I won't let Johnny forget you. I won't let _any_ of us forget you. River," and the pain in her voice sounds exactly like what you feel, "I'll remember you for the rest of my life. And whatever comes after."

Your chest tightens so fast you can't breathe for several seconds. It scares you only because you have to say something desperately important, that you've known for years and been unable to say. Then you're smiling so wide, and more tears are spilling salty and warm, and you speak. "You're my best friend. I love you."

She thanks you in a wobbly voice, says she loves you even though you know. "You're mine."

When you end the call, you stare at the paper rabbits on the nightstand until you fall asleep.

_four_

You told her you wanted her there, when the time came, so she is. Nicolas is, too, sitting next to her in chairs close to the bed.

Johnny sits on the bed, holding your hand. His eyes are terribly sad, but he isn't crying.

"Thank you. Thank you so much." Your voice is soft with weakness. "You know I'm happy, right? What you've done for me, and Anya…"

"Of course." His hand tightens. "And that makes me happy."

You feel so light on the bedspread. "J-Johnny."

He leans down to hear you. He kisses your forehead and you kiss his mouth. Tears fall onto your skin and prickle happysad in your eyes.

"I love you. When you miss me… look up at the sky." You take a breath, call for Isabelle. "The sky, okay?"

She nods, eyes wet.

With the last of your fading strength, you lay a hand on Johnny's cheek.

"Look at the stars."

Then, someday, maybe your light will let him remember the promise you made together.


End file.
